The Lament Of Romeo Montague
by Dr FrankEinstein
Summary: An alternate ending to the traditional story of Romeo & Juliet (English assignment)


"Save me," he said. He had not meant to speak aloud.

He was kneeling. He had lit six candles, which were arranged in a semi-circle around a large golden crucifix to which he spoke. A priest scribbled with a quill on parchment at a desk on the far side of the chapel. He looked up when he heard the lone man speak.

"Save you from what, _signore_?"

The man nodded his head at the crucifix. "The lord knows. That's enough."

"How long has it been since your last Confession?" the priest asked.

He half smiled. "Maybe a month? Back in Verona."

The priest offered to perform one now, but received no reply. "What do you pray for?" he ventured.

"Myself."

"Ah," he said and began scratching away with his quill again. The rain beat down hard on the thin windows and cold stone. The men didn't speak again for a while.

Rowdy laughter from one of the soldiers outside startled the priest and he smudged one of the words and cursed – then a desperate female scream followed. The priest winced.

"And so close to the ground of God..." he made the sign of the cross. "This war isn't worth all the sin that accompanies it."

"It is worth it," the man replied. "If it wasn't for those men out there, father, you'd be speaking French right now," he spat on the ground as if cleansing his mouth of his mention of the enemy.

"Yes, yes," the priest replied with distaste, "but such sin should be punished. It's not right."

The man barked a laugh. "Punished? For taking a liking to a serving girl? You'd have to hang half the men here."

The priest smirked, amused. "Only half? And would you be among them?"

"No, father."

The priest cast his eyes over the odd middle-aged man that knelt in his chapel. He wasn't rich, that much was certain – he didn't even wear a uniform; just rags. But his skin was pox-free and remarkably healthy. A ragged, greying beard covered his face like a veil. But his eyes glistened like jewels. He looked like he'd been happy once. "You're awfully benevolent for a man of war," he accused.

"And you're awfully opinionated for a man of God," the man retorted.

"Yes, well. I suspect that we all have our pasts we'd like to forget," the priest said and watched the man for any betrayal of emotion, but he saw none. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Just a soldier, father."

"How noble," he replied. "From Verona? You don't see many Veronians so clear of skin; especially since that plague outbreak a few years ago."

The soldier touched his unmarked cheek lightly. "I... wasn't there at the time."

"How come?"

The man stared at the crucifix for a long while, his thoughts somewhere else. "Leave me to pray, father."

Somewhere in the camp someone started playing a lute. Soon people were singing along with the rhythm, and stamping their boots, or knocking their spears and shields together. For a moment, all fear of what tomorrow would bring was being forgotten.

"It's strange. On the eve of a battle, I'd expected to see more repenters and less revellers," the priest said.

"Fear does strange things to you. And what makes you think I'm repenting?"

"I never said you were," the priest replied.

The soldier grunted. "Leave me to pray."

The priest considered for a minute. He got up from his desk, and came to stand by him. "Why don't you accept Confession?" He asked with a soft smile. "This could be your last day on earth, if tomorrow doesn't go as planned," he made the sign of the cross for good measure. "You'll want to be in the Lord's good graces."

The soldier sighed heavily. "Even for a priest, you are persistent."

The priest shrugged. "It's what we do. I'm sure you'll live. With His blessing."

No reply.

"I'm trying to help you."

"The Lord cannot help me. My priest told me. Back in Verona."

The priest knelt by him. He grunted painfully and held his back as he did.

"Been on your knees too long, father?" the soldier asked with a slight smirk.

"Too long in the stocks, actually. But we all deserve a second chance, do we not?"

"Do we? Father Lawrence didn't seem to think so." The soldier's eyes looked to the floor.

"Tell me what happened."

"I..." He sighed. "I was young back then. Young and stupid. We were in love - I loved her."

The priest didn't dare to move, in case he disrupted the soldier and he stopped talking again. Eventually he asked, his voice a little more than a whisper, "what happened?"

"We took poison, father, to escape our hopeless lives. But the apothecary must have measured out the doses wrong... When I took it, it wasn't strong enough to kill me. I awoke hours later. But it took her."

The priest spoke reflexively, before he could stop himself. "Suicide is a cardinal sin..."

The soldier was on his feet as quick as a wolf. "But it wasn't suicide – it was murder!" He swung and hit the crucifix hard and sent it flying. It shattered against the cold stone. "Because I survived!"

He collapsed, cradling his head in his hands, weeping. His stoic disguise was broken. The crippled, emotional boy he had been all those years ago was all that was left of him, and he wept on the chapel floor. But he seemed to become aware of himself suddenly, and he crawled towards the cross, apologising, claiming he'd pay.

The priest laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Don't worry about that."

"I was the one that fed her the poison. So they charged me with murder," he managed between sobs.

The priest urged him to keep talking.

"It doesn't matter now," he said bitterly. "The French have twice as many men as we do. And unlike we, their army is cold, and professional, and envious. My men won't be able to stop them. But who knows?" He opened his arms. "Perhaps death will absolve me."

"Hold on. Did you say your men?"

"Yes, father," the soldier acknowledged as if it was trivial. "I'm _Patrizio _Romeo Montague. Head of the house Montague." The priest's eyes widened and he stepped back unconsciously. "Oh, you've heard of me? Yes, my reputation precedes me. 'The boy who murdered the fairest girl in all of Italy,'" he shook his head. "But I loved her. No-one knew it, but I did. And now I see nought but enemies around me. Even in my own reflection. And I have no honour, or glory, and barely a penny to my name."

Romeo looked around at the pitiful chapel. The windows were cracked and the door rotten and rusty. Tiles were missing from the roof. The gagging smell of dirty soldiers filled the room from outside. Maybe he could begin his road to retribution here, after all.

"Well, perhaps a little more than a penny."

He produced a small leather pouch.

"Here, father. A few dozen _zecchino_ to replace the cross, and for some new windows – I hope you don't mind Venetian coins."

The priest claimed it was no bother and tried to refuse but Romeo wouldn't take the money back. He laid his hand on the priest's shoulder and sighed.

"Have a good night, father, and thank you for the Confession. You're a good man._ Salute_."


End file.
